


A Quite Different Case of Identity

by Tibby



Category: Hark! A Vagrant, Raffles - E. W. Hornung, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:53:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tibby/pseuds/Tibby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stupid Bunny and Gay Bunny make an appearance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Quite Different Case of Identity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



It was the Christmas Eve of 1884 when the strange mystery of my own doppelgangers took an unexpected turn. My friend Sherlock Holmes had accompanied Inspector Lestrade to the scene of a burglary. In his absence, I was enjoying that particular pleasure felt most keenly around Christmastime: the chance to sit in a comfortable chair next to a well-stoked fire. My surroundings also delighted me. Although Mrs. Hudson and I could not prevail upon Holmes to let us bring a tree into the house, I had at least convinced him to help us put some holly branches and ornaments about the place. The day was a dark one so I had lit some candles upon the mantelpiece, and a little ice on the window completed the picture.

So comfortable was I that I felt myself very close to sleep. However, no sooner had I closed my eyes than a knock on the door startled me fully awake. I leapt up, knowing that we were expecting no visitors and presuming this person to be a client. It was only once I had opened the door that I remembered. I had sent Stupid Watson to buy a turkey.

He looked proudly up at me, holding forth what was clearly not any kind of fowl.

“That,” I said, as patiently as I could, “is a jar of jam.”

He looked down at it. Then, holding the jar tight to his chest, said plaintively, “Jam…”

“Look, never mind. You tried your best,” I sighed.

“Jam is good.”

“Yes. Yes, jam is good. Why don’t you sit by the fire and eat your jam?”

 

I decided that it was best for me to fetch the turkey myself. I was about to put on my overcoat when there was a knock on the door once again. Thinking, this time, that it might be Mrs. Gumption of Gumption’s Jams, Chutneys and Preserves with some questions about Stupid Watson’s grasp of fiscal matters, I readied myself. In fact, I opened the door on a pale young man, almost trembling in his distress.

“Is this the home of the famous Mr. Holmes?” he asked me.

I told him that it was.

“Good!” he cried, “Then you must be Dr. Watson. I believe I must have read every piece of yours in the Illustrated London News. I am extremely glad to meet you. We have a number of things in common. I write for a number of periodicals, you see. I doubt that you’ve read anything of mine. I use a pseudonym in any case. Oh! There is also the fact that we both have a… tenuous connection with crime.”

I could tell that this young man’s rapid speech and overzealous good humour were symptoms of some great anxiety. I shook him by the hand and welcomed him in.

“Thank you, Dr. Watson,” he said, brushing the fast melting sleet from his hat.

He was passing me his coat when he spotted Stupid Watson by the fireplace and let out a high-pitched shriek.

I guessed that he was alarmed by the physical likeness between us. “That is my brother,” I quickly told him, “He’s staying with us for the season.”

“Why, he looks almost identical to you.”

“We’re twins," I said, but quickly corrected myself, "No, triplets!” fearing that the third Watson might show himself.

“This is a very strange coincidence,” said the young man, “The problem I meant to consult you on has doubles at the centre of it.”

I admit, my curiosity almost overcame my concern for our visitor’s welfare. Stupid Watson and Gay Watson were very much an open case. So far, the secret of their origin, and the reason for their existence, eluded even the inestimable powers of Sherlock Holmes. And as they seemed to have become my responsibility, I often found myself wondering whether they had a home to return to.

“Is Mr. Holmes in?” the visitor continued, “Is he decent? My name is Manders, by the way. ‘Though I mostly answer to Bunny.”

“Well, Manders,” I said, “I’m afraid that Holmes is out and I can’t tell you when he’ll be back again. However, if you’d like to tell me your story, perhaps a fresh perspective will throw some light on it.”

“Yes,” said Manders, throwing himself into my chair by the fire, “And perhaps your brother will also help us?”

Stupid Watson was at that moment studying one of the diagrams I had made for him - the one that illustrated the differences between particular species of bird and jars of strawberry preserve.

“He’s very shy,” I lied.

 

“It first happened about a week ago. I had been visiting a friend of mine at his rooms in the Albany when, as I left the building, I passed a man on the stairs. I had something worrying on my mind at the time, I was not paying attention to the world around me. But one chance glance at this man startled me. So uncanny was the resemblance between us that I thought I had lost my mind. I dismissed the thought within moments. I decided that I must have overreacted to a slight likeness.

Then, today, I saw the man again and this time there was no mistaking it. I spotted my friend in the street. I was just about to call out to him when I realised he was already speaking to someone. The double. He turned his head and I could see myself as plainly as if I were looking in a mirror. I... ran. I was so alarmed that I just ran. I ended up sitting in Regent’s Park for over an hour before finally determining to come here. What could it mean, Dr. Watson? It is all beyond me!”

I was sorry that there was nothing I could tell Manders to make any sense of his story. I had hoped that something in his account would throw light on my own experiences. But his story seemed as confusing as mine.

“I have heard of cases like this before,” I said, tentatively, “The doubles seem to come in pairs. One should be incredibly dim-witted, and the other… ah, he should have a great attachment to… Well, possibly your friend will know something about these strange events. Have you talked to him?”

“Between catching sight of the two of them and coming here, I have been entirely alone.”

“Well, I believe it would be worthwhile to discuss the matter with your friend. Perhaps you might consider coming back here with any new information?”

 

It grieves me to report that Mr. Manders could not help us solve the mystery of the doppelgangers. However, he did return a few weeks later to tell us of his conversation with his friend, a man named Raffles.

“You know,” Manders told us, “I am sure you are right about the two characters of these doubles. I passed both of them more than once on the stairs leading to Raffles’ rooms. Yet, when I confronted Raffles about it, of all things, he hadn’t noticed that neither of them were me!”


End file.
